McRib update

I ate one at lunch today.

The 2008 total is up to 4.

Pray for Mojo.

A quick observation from my sickbed1

So, for the last two days or so, I have had have a pretty bad flu or an incredibly awful, almost biblically epic cold. And I'm taking (among other things) Theraflu² for it. Since I also have a scratchy throat, it's the Flu + Sore Throat version, which is some sort of spiced apple flavor.

My observation is this: this sore throat version has a narrow margin over the original flavor. The reason being that it does not taste like hot, mediciney lemon juice. Instead, it tastes like THE ABSOLUTE WORST HOT APPLE CIDER YOU'VE EVER HAD.

Goddamn, I hate being sick.


P.S. - If you're stalking me, don't forget to check my "101 things" list periodically. I will be marking them off as I do them. I've been making more homemade soup to combat this vile illness that afflicts me, so I'm down to 99!

---

1. I say "sickbed," but that's actually just where I belong. I am actually at work.
2. Which probably warrants a trademark or restricted symbol, but I'm too spacy to figure out which or remember how to make them.³
3. I do remember how to make superscripts.

My Space Archive: Death Denouement

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Having faced my imminent mortality for upwards of 5 days, I was in a "deep" mood. Well, as deep as I'm usually capable of being (Note the Clash reference took almost 7 USA-Today-length paragraphs to appear).

I did and do mean what I said here. For what it's worth.

[Originally posted on Friday, November 24, 2006]

Well, I've done a lot of soul-searching...

...over the past few days. Kind of hard not to when you're faced with your own mortality (see "Well, I DON'T have cancer"). And I've come to some conclusions.

I'm not one of those naive jackasses who claims that "This changes EVERYTHING." Nobody really changes for more than a few weeks after a scare like that. The only real change that I truly plan to never have another cigarette, no matter how plastered I get. Funny how a lung cancer scare makes you read the warnings a little more seriously [The irony: that was a non-cigarette-related cancer, as far as I know].

But, for the time being, I've realized that my life is far to short to get embroiled in pettiness and crappy argumentative behavior. So, I'm offering a combination blanket apology and general amnesty to everyone I have ever hurt or been hurt by before Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006. Life is WAAAAAY too short to get caught up on bullshit like that.

However, in keeping with my general policy of cynicism and impatience, I'm also not going to put up with any more crap from those I have already apologized to on numerous occasions or those that have no desire to apologize or atone for their past actions (believe it or not, I'm really not singling anyone out, this is just a general statement - so don't nobody come whining to old Jon that I'm picking on them, I'm not) [I wasn't. No really. Stop looking at me like that]. Life is also WAAAAAY too short to either feel guilty or waste my time with people that don't care enough either way to repair lines of communication that are broken.

I've also decided that I'm not going to ever tell anyone that I've got a potentially fatal condition until I'm sure. I didn't exactly go blabbing all over creation about this, but in the limited pool of folks that I went out of my way to tell (and I know that they told a few others, so those people don't count), only ONE person [Hi, Ali!] didn't either discount my fears to the point that I felt stupid or treat me with such kid gloves and worry that I ended up feeling guilty for bothering them.

And I've decided that when I go to the doctor for persistent pain and they tell me I might have a life-threatening illness, I'm still going to demand a prescription for the original pain. All that emotional and financial stress, and I still have no pills/salve/PT to relieve the cold fire in my shoulder blade, which is as bad as it ever was. Jeez, doc, hook a Cracka' up [If anyone out there is a doctor, I could still use some pills. I'm not in pain, but hey, couldn't hurt...].

The final decision I've made is that I seriously need to listen to the Clash more. 17 hours a day is clearly insufficient.Um...peace out, y'all...I guess...

There's a lot of subtext in this one. But not as much as some folks probably thought.

Next on The Archive: Don't Cry For Me, Turkmenistan.

MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death (Part 2 of 2)

(Or: Anticlimax On A Grand Scale)

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

My Brush With Death Comes to a thrilling conclusion today. SPOILER ALERT: I don't die.

Like most things in life, this was pretty dissappointing, huh?

Well, not for me. I was fucking elated.

[Originally posted on Wednesday, November 22, 2006]

Well, I DON'T have cancer!

Current mood: Fucking elated

This is what I don't have: Pancoast's syndrome. Also known as Superior Sulcus tumors. A relatively uncommon form of lung cancer whose stage II description happened to fit every symptom I have right now.

Thank goodness the murky potential tumor on my X-ray was just old scarring from my 2 bouts of childhood pneumonia.

I'm not going to lie. I was scared shitless for the past few days.

Of course, this means I still have ridiculous, unexplained weight loss and near-crippling pain in my right shoulder blade [I have since gained about 5 pounds back. And my shoulder does not hurt anymore. It's a Christmas miracle]. Not to mention something like 1200 bucks worth of medical bills with no insurance. But at least I have a higher than 2 out of 3 chance of outliving Jesus now [Pretty edgy, huh?].

Now that I have a second lease on life, I feel it's time to squander it on bourbon and McRib value meals.

You know what? I'm going to take time out of my busy schedule of Not Dying and Rehashing Old Crap to complain about the whole "McRib on Tour" marketing plan. I'm so sick of being McDonald's bitch every time the unholy goodness of McRib hits the Windy City (pretty much every December, making it as seasonal as Egg Nog and twice as WASP-y).

The only thing I'm more sick of than that is people telling me how nasty the McRib is. Yes, I've seen it without the sauce. Yes, I'm aware that it's not really "barbecue." I grew up in South-By-God-Carolina. I know barbecue.

But I also know the McRib is a fine slice of fast-food Americana, and I will not stand idly by during its mocking by some fictional straw-man reader. I just want to have it available year round, so I'm not at the mercy of Ray Kroc's ghost when I want pressed pork-like byproducts on an oblong bun.

Okay, enough of that odd cul-de-sac. Next blog: I forgive everyone for everything. Sort of.

MySpace Archive: My Brush With Death

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Welcome to part one of my exciting two part series "My Brush With Death." It would have been a lot longer, had I actually said anything about This Particular Brush while it was actually looming in my brain.

Of course, at this point, I had no idea that I was About To Possibly Die At Some Point In the Near Future If Certain Things Turned Out To Be The Case. The fact that they did not turn out to be the case in no way lessened the Personal Horror.

In any case, at this point my mind was more focused on the Nameless Fear of the Unknown that is usually brought about by contemplating the flagship series in the Lifetime Network syndication lineup. The fact that, despite being on Lifetime, the show did not contain a Judith Light appearance should in no way lessen the Personal Horror.

I will be presenting this particular Archive with limited editorial interruption, as it is one of my personal favorites.

[Originally posted on November 7, 2006]

Well, I'm going to a free clinic (plus Golden Girls house)

I have finally crossed the line from everyday pain to ridiculous pain in my shoulder (did I mention my shoulder has been feeling like it's full of cold fire for the past month and a half? I probably should have), and need to see a doctor. But (and this is a huge but - I should up the font, but I'm just not that Pomo) [But I am NOW.], I am not insured. And I won't be for at least 2 months.

So I get to trek my sorry hiney [Did I really write "hiney" here? I guess I did. Shameful] to the free clinic today, whereupon I can mention this pain, the weight loss, maybe get some baselines done, and while I'm at it, what better opportunity to get a cotton swab up my urethra and maybe a prostate exam. Just to keep the dignity at an all-time high.

Also, if they've expanded their areas of coverage to psychiatric disorders, I should really talk to a therapist about my increasing inability to comprehend the geography of the Golden Girls' house. This is a problem I've had for years (I'm a Bea Arthur fan, like all good-hearted people - and no, it's not prurient, you sickos).

I hesitate to explain my problems with the House That Blanche Built, for fear of spreading my own neuroses about the Non-Euclidean, almost Lovecraftian dimensions of that abode of the 60-something damned to those who have been innocent of this nightmare. However, I will make a few observations (and I would love to be able to provide visual aids, but I cannot draw dimensions beyond what the human mind and the set department at Buena Vista can envision).

I assume the reader has a basic knowledge of the set of this popular show, a mainstay of the NBC evenings of the late 80s/early 90s and the Lifetime Network mornings, afternoons, and late nights ever since. I also assume a basic knowledge of stage directions (a primer for my rare non-theatre acquaintances: all directions are from the standpoint of a performer facing the audience - stage right is to the audience's left - and downstage is closer to the audience, upstage is away).

There are three major set pieces in the house: the Living Room, with its front door on stage right, open Lanai windows upstage, unused breakfast nook (a mainstay of all shows featuring an all-woman cast - I refer to my monograph on the cast flux in Designing Women, first published in 1999) and hallway upstage left, and stage left kitchen exit; the Kitchen, with its stage right door to the living room and upstage right door to the garage; and the aforementioned Lanai (which is apparently some sort of patio, but I have never heard anyone use the term outside of Golden Girls studies - in much the same way that I've never heard the words Oleo or Erne used outside of crossword puzzles). There are also assorted smaller sets, including bedrooms, a garage, and a front patio area.

Here are my issues (not all of them, I have limited time and space and will have to wait until I have time to compose a full-length academic study to go in full depth). I apologize if some of these statements overlap, but this is part and parcel of the nature of the beast:

1. The Front Door: From the exterior shots, the front door in no way resembles the front door/patio (not Lanai) area. Also, what is the Cabbalistic significance of the exclamation point-shaped gouge on the inside of the door? Is it the set design equivalant of a fnord? If you don't know what a fnord is, please do not ask. You are safer not knowing.

2: The Bedrooms (Part one): The hall leads straight back to the four bedrooms. They are evidently set two to a side. However, that would mean that the two stage right bedrooms exist in the same temporal space as the Lanai. This is impossible in three-dimensional space.

3: The Bedrooms (Part two): The first stage left bedroom (Rose) seems harmless enough, but I refer you to point 5 where the illogical non-recursion begins to haunt my nights.

4: The Bedrooms (Part three): What the Samuel Langhorne Hell is the deal with the paint job in Blanche's room? Even if not technically impossible, it's hard to wrap one's mind around the mentality of one who would find that acceptable.

5: The Kitchen/Garage/Rose's Room Conundrum: This is almost too hard for me to bear. If I break down and start ranting about Elder Gods and Things Man Was Not Meant To Know, bear with me. The entrance to the kitchen from what I presume is the garage is upstage right. However, the window behind the sink clearly shows this garage (where, you might remember, the GG's tried their hand at Mink Farming, with hilarious results) must be off further to right. But that's exactly where Rose's room is. But even beyond this fact, that also means, given the spatial relationship of the front door (no matter how it's interpreted) to the rest of the house, that the driveway comes in from the back and center of the home (a patent impossibility). Especially considering it is supposedly coming from the stage left side of the exterior. Auugh.

In closing: if this house were designed by Dr. Calagari, it's dimensions couldn't be less sane. M.C. Escher on a peyote-fueled Spirit Journey into the Navidson residence from House of Leaves couldn't conceive of a less likely arrangement of living quarters. I fear for the basic sanity of those poor aging, yet still active, women, struggling to keep up in a young person's world while being subjected to physical laws so different than our own.

To the 2 people who will likely be still reading to this point, thank you for hearing me out, and thank you for being a friend.

I wish I could have found a bigger picture of Bea Arthur as The Starchild, but that picture has apparently disappeared from the interwebs. It used to pop up on the first page if you searched for pictures of Bea Arthur. And yes, I have done a lot of searches for pictures of Bea Arthur.

Technically, My Brush With Death occurred in between this post and the next. So, once again I have built things up for no damn good reason.

MySpace Archive: The Unemployment Saga, Part the Fifth

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Please, feel free to start from the beginning and move forward in roughly chronological order, as I am not trying to give some sort of Pinter-esque unfolding of the plot. I'd paste the link, like I have in previous entries, but Jesus, it's not like it's from like 50 entries ago. Just scroll.

Due to the intricate interlocking nature of my carefully scripted life, the first entry also doubles as a foreshadowing of the approaching sequel to this award-avoiding time waster -- MySpace Archive II: My Brush With Death.

[Originally posted on 10/24/2006]

Well, I'm suffering from full-blown hypochondria


Anyone who knows me well knows I am a bit of a nervous person. I'm skittish. I jump at small things. Actually, I fit the standard DSM IV diagnosis for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder pretty well (specifically Criteria B1, B4, B5, C1, C2, C5, C7, D2, D3, and D5). I think I was originally going to try to say something witty here, but honestly, I'm reasonably effed-up, and looking up the DSM IV criteria didn't help me stay on topic at all...


But deep inside myself, I'm usually tranquil over health issues. I'm not one to worry too deeply about the physical well being of my body. Sure, I get frequent headaches, and I have sciatica, have a history of benign polyps, get a 2-month cold every winter, etc. But nothing has scared me deeply about my long-term viability as an organism on planet earth.


Until I started looking great.


Reread that. I'm looking as good as I've looked in years. So of course, something must be wrong, right?


When I turned 25, something happened to my body. Something that permenantly changed my self preception. I lost my metabolism. Anyone who saw me (or even has seen photographs of me before that time) knows I looked like a scarecrow. I ate and ate and never gained weight. I was 30 pounds underwieght without any effort on my part. But that all changed in the summer of '01. I gained 45 pounds in a matter of months, and gradually ended up (by this March), weighing 211 pounds. I felt like the Michelin Man.


Over the past (maybe) three months, however, I have started losing weight. Dramatically. And this weight loss has been almost entirely without provocation. I haven't significantly changed my eating patterns (I am a slave to my appetite), and I sure as hell ain't exercising. At first, I figured "Okay, I'm single, I'm eating less, etc..." But I know for a fact that I lost at least 35 pounds before the last time I've used a scale (a few weeks ago). And since then, I've needed to add yet another hole to my belt (which now extends all the way to the loop on the side). So god knows what I'm weighing now. [Good news: I've gained 10 pounds since I wrote this. Yay...]


Anywhoo, I've got a severe paranoia going on, as I've lost at least 18% of my body weight [Yes, I actually did this math] without trying. Of course, I have no insurance and no job (see almost any other blog I've posted). And the free clinic hasn't returned my calls.So to recap: fat and ugly - must be fine. Thin and attractive - terminal case. Thanks brain. You're the tops.

Stirring, huh? It only got better later that day.

Well, I'm burnt out on sending resumes

My second bitchfest of the day:

I've sent what feels like thousands of resumes out today. The actual number is probably closer to 15 or so, but I'm talking subjective feelings here. So I sit here in my friend's [To anyone new to my universe, this friend was my then future, now current girlfriend Ali. At the time I was in massive denial about the impending relationship that was fated to occur] apartment (did I mention I don't have internet access at home?) frantically checking craigslist, the chicago reader, et al in the desperate hope that one of these will click soon. I'm starving and about to take a lunch break, but of course, it doesn't matter what I eat, I will continue to lose weight until I look like an unwrapped mummy.

Thankfully, my dad is mailing me a check to cover my rent. I'd like to point out that I would rather scoop my nipples out with a melon baller [rejected in draft format: "eat my own genitals with a knife and fork"] than ask my dad for rent money. He's an adjunct college professor who just lost 50% of his courseload this semester (because some freshly minted PhD with no real world experience is obviously going to be better at teaching business and management than a man with a Masters degree and over 30 years of industry experience both firsthand and consulting). He doesn't have the kind of money to toss to his 30 year old unemployed son. But he does it anyway, bacause he's my dad. Of course, I told him I got my hours drastically cut, not that I don't have a job. Because why be honest with your family? [So, my dad later discovered my MySpace blog (soon to be archived here). He hasn't mentioned this yet. Yet.]

But enough about that guilt-filled cul-de-sac. I'm mainly just writing to say that I have been extensively applying for jobs online all day (with a few 5-minute breaks here and there), and I am burnt out.

Somebody better hire me soon. I need a rest from job hunting. It's far more tiring than just working myself to death ever could be.

From the clarity that only gainful employment can bring, I can honestly say I'm not sure that's true.

The Unemployment Saga concludes here, as I managed to secure some temping
jobs. My Brush With Death begins in earnest next post. You lucky devils.